Molly was nervous. She was at the doctor's with Sherlock, and they were waiting for the doctor to bring them the ultrasound. Sherlock squeezed her hand.
"It'll be fine," he told his wife. "I'm here now." Molly smiled at him. "As long as this time it isn't multiples," she said. Sherlock chuckled. They both looked up as the door swung open.
"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes," began Doctor Walker. Molly looked at him as he spoke, but Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the piece of paper in the man's hands.
"Sometimes," the doctor said. "Sometimes, when a mother is suffering from a disease or an infection of sorts, there can be a bit of a constriction in the blood vessels connecting said mother and baby. This is called…" "Placental insufficiency," interrupted Sherlock. "But why tell us that?"
Doctor Walker sighed. "This is the most common cause of miscarriages in pregnancy," he explained. "But you wouldn't be telling us that unless…" the words were too terrible for Sherlock to finish his sentence. Doctor Walker hung his head. "I am so sorry," he whispered.
Molly had never cried so hard in her life, which was saying a lot. Not when her parents had died. Not when Sherlock had banished her from his life. Not when she left her baby behind in the hands of a man who she thought hated her. Not when she tore apart her own flesh. To her, nothing had been as painful as this was.
Sherlock didn't know what to say. He drove them back to 221B Baker Street and walked his wife inside. Luckily, the children were at the Watson's, so Sherlock didn't have to explain why Mumma was crying.
Sherlock sat his wife down on the couch, walked into the kitchen, and put the kettle on to boil. When he turned around, Molly stood behind him. She was no longer crying, but her eyes were red and swollen and he could tell she felt miserable. "I'm making tea," he told her, but she didn't respond. Sherlock continued to brew the tea and soon set a boiling mug of it in front of the woman.
"Drink up," he told her with a smile. Molly took the cup and held it in her hands, staring deep into the swirling liquid. Sherlock turned away from her so that he wouldn't have to disguise the pain in his eyes.
Sherlock was sad, as well. Truly. He had wanted the child very much. He also knew how much Molly's sickness took out of her, and how her entire world seemed to be held back by it. This had distracted her. It would have continued to distract her for the rest of her life, and while Matthew and Brooklyn would have been enough, to have another reason to live snatched out of the palm of your hand… It was cruel.
Sherlock turned back around at the sound of the sob. Molly's face was buried in her hands, the tea left on the table in front of her. Sherlock sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder, and there they sat in the kitchen, Sherlock and Molly Holmes, mourning the non-existence of what could have been their third child.
